


Scars That Won't Fade Until You Do

by Bfly1225



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, reverse omens - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, M/M, Reverse AU Ineffable Husbands, Scars, descriptions of self harm, not a lot of comfort here lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 12:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19888066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bfly1225/pseuds/Bfly1225
Summary: Ziraphon jumped a bit to sit on the counter, craning his neck a tad bit more than he should’ve been able to, allowing him to look in the mirror.The skin all up and down his back was bubbled and scarred, warped with the lasting damage of heat on delicate skin.Everytime Ziraphon saw those lasting marks, he was reminded of that long, long decade. The last standing feud between him and his love. An argument fashioned in the late 1970’s, lasting through the eighties and into the nineties. An argument that, had it not ended, might’ve meant the end of both parties.AKACorviel discovered that Ziraphon, during a rather violent argument, had begun to do self harm via holy ground.





	Scars That Won't Fade Until You Do

**Author's Note:**

> This is very depressing, I apologize but not really

Corviel considered Ziraphon to be precious to him. That thought alone brings up several countering thought in his mind, but somewhere in his core, his knows this is true. His mind flails for excuses- he finds every bit of life precious, evil or good, he finds someone to share his eternity with precious because everything else dies too fast, things like that. 

Maybe, he thought, a calm statement against the clamouring, maybe I just love him. And he accepted that to be the truth. It made sense. 

A few months after the Armageddidn’t, after having thwarted evil (they took credit for it, though all they had really done had been to be gay in the forefront), they moved in together. Not quite as a romantic thing, but. . . it forced them to stop avoiding each other. There were no sides to dance around anymore, so why not make up for lost time? After all, they had a lot of that until the next Great War kicked up. Ziraphon had been tentative at first, but began slowly bringing succulents and leaving them among the shelving, bringing in cacti to put in the storefront with the nicer-looking guitars, his favorite in the corner where Corviel would sit with his ancient guitar and play softly under the stereo. Covers of pop songs weren’t uncommon. He’d picked up some songs by an artist called Jack Johnson that he had particular fun with. 

Little by little, Ziraphon began spending less time at his official home and more time at the music store. Feathers of his (all black and iridescent blue) began appearing between the stacks of the store, appearing from wings that he let out when customers just weren’t biting. Succulents, previously found in his own home, began finding new homes on shelves. Ziraphon had even taking to sulking among the stacks and helping people looking for something (it was the least he could do for always messing with the genre signs).

So, even a few months after that (amounting to a couple few months after Notmageddon), it was a blooming arrangement. Both of them had come into comfort and coexistence. Neither really needed to eat, but they liked to, and so Corivel would go pick up dinner and leave Ziraphon home for all intents and purposes (after a day of messing with customers, he was often fed up with people, and was content to munch on whatever Corviel would bring home). 

It was one such night, Corviel having left to grab something, Ziraphon didn’t know. He hadn’t asked, only have bade him goodbye. Ziraphon had been lounging on the bed (often, when he had the chance, he could take up all of it and bury himself in the countless pillows that Corviel insisted on. He was okay with it- they were all molten Corviel feathers, so. . . they were very soft and smelled like him, which would soothe him until his angel returned with something to eat). 

Ziraphon stirred from his buried position, his back itchy. He grumbled, shimmied a little, and tried to get more comfortable in vain. It still itched. So he grumbled, popped up, and shed his layers, starting with his fishnet gloves, then his bowtie, then his vest, and his dress shirt. He grumbled about his almost-nakedness, disgruntled as he padded to the bathroom, where he could sit on the sink and inspect his back in the large antique mirror. Despite Corviel’s insistence that he wasn’t obsessed with his appearance, Zirpahon knew he cared, and it worked because Ziraphon cared a lot too. Ziraphon jumped a bit to sit on the counter, craning his neck a tad bit more than he should’ve been able to, allowing him to look in the mirror. 

The skin all up and down his back was bubbled and scarred, warped with the lasting damage of heat on delicate skin. 

Everytime Ziraphon saw those lasting marks, he was reminded of that long, long decade. The last standing feud between him and his love. An argument fashioned in the late 1970’s, lasting through the eighties and into the nineties. An argument that, had it not ended, might’ve meant the end of both parties. 

It had been the deep winter of 1984. Ziraphon had tried to do his normal schedule when they argued- sulk for a bit, nap for a decade, wake up, sulk some more, and make up with Corviel- but he couldn’t sleep. The argument just replayed in his mind, over and over again, Corviel’s voice rising in anger and Ziraphon’s hand rising in violence, hurt words, glares, yelling, proclamations of hatred exchanged. Words that, perhaps, hit a bit too deep. Words that hit on unfair weaknesses confided in nights of intoxication. 

And, woe unto Ziraphon, he remembered it all in photo-realistic memory. It rattled in his brain, replaying the shit he said and the shit that was said to him. He got angry, he tried getting angry at Corviel but it always came back to him, If he’d been better, Corviel wouldn’t’ve had to yell. If he hadn’t said that one thing, Corviel wouldn’t have gotten upset and lashed out. 

If he hadn’t been so goddamn selfish, maybe Corviel could love him. 

Ziraphon’s bad habit of self destructive stretched far before time really started. But the exact way he did it this time- that had started in the 1700’s, where he’d stand on the stoop of a church, letting the consecrated ground hiss through his shoes and make him warm, warmer until it was hot and nearly burning, where he’d step off and away to tempt someone on hell’s orders. It was simply a reminder that he was not a good person. Holy things hurt him, so he couldn’t be good. 

But now wasn’t a reminder. He knew. He knew on such a level that it hurt, blanketing his mind and woven in his being. It wasn’t a reminder anymore. It was a punishment. 

The lock was easy to pick. The priest kept the place locked up at night, even though there’d never been much super valuable inside. Vandals, he’d always said. Vandals could come in and draw crude things on the stained glass windows (which, he would never tell anyone, was based on his childhood actions. He believed God had forgiven him. She hadn’t, not really). Ziraphon was, unfortunately, not a vandal that night. Perhaps another night, when he was feeling a tad more like himself other than his numb shell. 

His head was nearly empty of thoughts, perhaps a defense mechanism. It worked better that way- this way, he wouldn’t have to think about red hair and gentle music, tall bookshelves crammed with cassettes and vinyls, and a white feather tucked between the stacks. He couldn’t think of tightly-knotted ties and gentle hands with blackfingernails, reading glasses just on the tip of his nose, gentle eyes that searched souls. He refused to, because when he saw all that, he also saw a fish-netted hand rising to strike a shark cheekbone, and that lovely face turned with anger that turned his stomach. 

He could still see Corviel walking away from him, holding his cheek.

He swung open the door, his feet already starting to burn through the thick rubber of his soles. He closed his eyes, breathing in a deep breath of musty air as the door swung closed behind him with a dull thud. He settling on a pew, and unlaced his boots slowly, pulling off his socks and rolling up the long pants he’d thrown on in favor of his normal attire. He placed his feet on the floor again, sucking a breath between clenched teeth as the floor burning the sensitive soles of his feet. He picked them up sharply, and slowly put them back down. 

Yes, he thought, this felt appropriate. This was haloed ground, a good place where important and holy things happened. It must hurt him to touch, because he was none of those things. 

Smoke curled from the ground as Ziraphon bit his lip against the pain. It grounded him. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like he was freefloating. He felt so grounded, so in his own person, even through this destruction of his body. He could feel himself like this. 

Of course, the next night, Ziraphon found himself opening the lock once again not a few months later. Then again, and again. His mind had become clearer and clearer, but of course that just brought the mental pain back, which he tried to clear out and purge with the feeling of fire on his skin. He’d begun lying on the floor, letting it burn his back and shoulders until the skin was horrible and twisting, burnt raw from accumulative hours of him laying on hallowed ground, until he’d eventually been caught trying to break into the church by nobody other than his Angel himself.

He’d never told Corviel what he’d been doing in that church. 

In the present day, he traced his fingers over the warped skin. It had healed on his thighs and legs, the soles of his feet, but his back was scarred beyond recognition. He could remember when he had begun to get used to the body, all smooth and rippling muscle under unmarked skin. It had been nearly eerie to him as he just let himself move in his human form, moving his shoulders, and spending at least a half hour admiring the strange movement of his hands. The blank skin had accumulated various scars and ink since then, but Ziraphon had preferred it just a little imperfect. The burns were pushing a line, however. The word ruined echoed in the back of Ziraphon’s mind as his fingers traced down his shoulder. 

“Lord almighty,” He heard a gasp. He whipped his head around, and there stood Corviel. 

“Oh, welcome home.” Ziraphon tried to brush it off. “I’ve been ready to go since you left, you should feel lucky that I waited for you-”

“Turn around.” Corivel said, setting down the bag of food he’d gotten. 

“Getting right to it, hmm? Want me to bend over, while I'm at it?” Ziraphon asked, but he didn’t turn around. 

“Aziraphon.” The angel snapped, and Ziraphon turned around begrudgingly, fidgeting with his fingers as he heard the intake of breath Corviel made with the image of his marred skin. He winced away from Corviel’s touch when his warm fingers ghosted over his shoulderblades, the worst of his scarring. He leaned into the second attempt at contact, Corviel's warm hands spreading over the expanse of scarred skin. "Who did this to you?" Asked the angel. Ziraphon could feel the holy rage seeping off of him now, nearly beginning to but the skin he was touching. It reminded him too much of the church- a reminder that he wasn't good enough, a hereditary enemy, a demon. 

"Me. I did it to myself." He replied, choking on the words, but needed to soothe Corviel's rage.

The anger simmered down, but a cold spike of sadness and anxiety hit Ziraphon from his lover. The demon, like most demons, could sense negative emotions like and Angel could sense positives.

"Whe-"

"I think you know when." Ziraphon cut off Corviel.

"Eighties?"

"Eighties."

". . .the Argument?"

"Yeah. The Argument." That was all it was known as- The Argument. A hand raised in violence. A silence between the two lasting a decade. Horrible memories.

"Ziraphon, I had no idea." Corviel spoke softly. "I'm. . . So fucking sorry."

"What do you even have to be sorry about?" Ziraphon asked as Corviel's hands dropped to his sides once again. Ziraphon grabbed his shirt and threw it on, not buttoning it, but simply making his scars harder to see.

"That I never- that I never asked. I never called. I never thought about it. Anything, really. A lot of things."

The demon turned to face Corviel. "Angel, I don't need a pity party. I was. . . In a bad place. I'm not anymore. That's what matters."

"But its not okay-"

"I didn't say it was okay." Ziraphon snapped. "I know it was wrong. I knew it then, too. Hurting myself just to snap myself back to reality, then hurting myself because all I could think about was the sound of my hand hitting your face and I wanted to. . . Feel the world get me back for that. Not that your absence didn't hurt, but. . ." The demon trailed off, then picked a pair of his sunglasses off of the shelf he kept them on, tucking them on his face. "It doesn't matter, now." 

"Yes, it does." Corviel insisted. "Doing- er, what you did means. . . Well, it means I hurt you a lot more than I thought I hurt you. I'd figured you had brushed it off, you know, one or just hated me. I don't- I'm just- I'm so sorry." Corviel reached out one hand, timid and afraid Ziraphon might pull away, but Ziraphon grazed it with his hand, code for it being alright to touch him. 

Ziraphon swung between needing to be touched and reacting violently to any touch. It had always been an issue, so. . . Some time, a very long time ago, Corviel had started asking permission by stick out on hand. If Ziraphon touched it, Corviel was safe to touch him. If he was ignored, he knew to let it be. Ziraphon. . . well, Ziraphon didn’t really want to be touched in this moment, but he believed Corviel needed it, and Ziraphon was never the type to put his needs above Corviel’s. 

Corivel wrapped Ziraphon into a hug, attempting not to cry. “You’re okay now, though, right?” 

“Now that I have you? Absolutely.”


End file.
